


Hands

by Ori (magnetium)



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-24
Updated: 2007-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetium/pseuds/Ori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a drabble in response to the prompt: "hands".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

There is a kind of muscle memory that one develops with things: all things, but especially those that one holds, pulls, or caresses. The hands are so quick to learn, so absorbent of shape and patterns. Holding a gun is something Ianto's hands can do, so is balancing a tea tray. He doesn't need to look to know when his finger is resting right above the trigger, or when he is measuring out a spoonful of tea. The hands are capable of picking up so much subtlety, all on their own, with the tiniest of inputs.

When he wakes in the morning with the feel of skin under his fingers, he can tell exactly where his hand has fallen and what part of the body beside him he is touching, without opening his eyes. His fingers transmit the curves and the texture and he knows. And so Ianto keeps his lids closed, breathing softly, living through the gentle rise and fall under his palm.

There was a time when the skin beside him in the morning belonged to a smaller, slighter body. The skin was chocolate brown and so soft. Ianto would open his eyes without hesitation to take it in, basking in it, his fingers rejoicing as they travelled their well-known paths to create pleasure in the early morning sun. The whole body is capable of muscle memory, every part of it, and when one body learns another - Ianto cannot remember ever feeling the same kind of bliss. Nor can he ever forget the kind of agony when the body his had learned so well ceased to be beside him.

The skin he feels now belongs to a larger body, still soft but with a certain coarseness. Hair where there wasn't before, less curves and mystery, more heat and muscle. Moving across it is much like balancing a tea tray or handling a gun, with less destructive consequences if he makes an error, but he never does. He is still mostly asleep, just awake enough to move with a sense of purpose, shifting close to breathe in the scent of the body beside him. His fingers slide deftly, so familiar with these shapes, these forms - but there is something not quite right now, something different - and Ianto wakes to find an empty space beside him, his fingers curled around the fabric of the comforter. The memories in the nerves of his hands have betrayed him, and he blinks as the brightness of the sun reflects off the white, empty sheet beside him.

Above the pillow there is a note and he squints to read it with his sleep-blurred eyes: "Had to go. See you at work."

Ianto turns, away from the bright window, away from the empty spot on the bed. He reminds himself that this is different, that this is not Lisa and making breakfast together and fitting two people into a shower made for one. He knows that there is no room for him to become sentimental, that the kind of love he has now is not the kind of love he had before. They are incomparable, eternally separate. But his hands don't know the difference, they still learn the curves and the tender spots, and they don't know that they can't ache for touch in the morning, when Ianto lays alone in bed. He pulls the blanket around him, clutching tightly at it, and tries to convince himself that the feel of the woven cotton is enough. But like all the other mornings, it never is.


End file.
